Endgame
by Cherie-24-Addict
Summary: "I trust you, Cary. I can count the people I've trusted in my life on one hand and still have fingers left over." All hell breaks loose after 2x20, and Kalinda finds herself with only one person she can turn to.


_A/N: Just a quick note. 1) This is my first fic for this fandom, 2) This is my first fic for this ship, 3) This is unbeta-ed, and 4) I have just come out of a long period of writer's block. So please read and review. Any comment, no matter how short or long, is valuable._

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><p>To say the least, the day after Election Night is a disaster.<p>

Everyone is coming up to congratulate Alicia, and she is having none of it. The bags under her eyes are much more noticeable, and those who know her can smell the tequila on her breath. Her clothes are crinkled, since she hasn't changed, and even though her hair looks perfect as always, Alicia looks like a mess.

Her "friends" whisper behind closed doors, wondering how Alicia could be so devastated when her slimeball husband won the election for State's Attorney anyway. It would have been more reasonable to act like this when she had found out about her husband's bribes and whores.

From her friend's appearance (can she even call Alicia her friend anymore?), Kalinda knows she is screwed, pun absolutely intended.

But even though her life as she knows it is over, all hell doesn't break loose. Not yet. Kalinda watches and waits for the moment when Alicia will reveal that Leela destroyed everything for her.

She gets her chance quickly enough. A major murder trial is under way, and Alicia and Will are up against one of the prettier prosecutors (she can't recall the name, and she doesn't apologize for it either, but she knows the woman looks like Michelle Dessler from _24_). It'll be a tough trial; the lawyer learned her lesson the first time around, and now she'll be sure to know that everything is "in her opinion". All the evidence for the case is against the defendant: Katherine Brown, a 16-year-old girl who allegedly shot her father in cold blood. Lockhart Gardner needs to win this, and badly; Mr. Brown was an ASA, and if they can't prove it was self-defense, it'll look a whole lot worse, for both Katherine and the firm.

Alicia finds Kalinda up one night, pulling an all-nighter on her laptop with a cup of black coffee her companion. Alicia walks into the doorway and stares at Kalinda for a minute. As she usually does when being stared at, she stares Alicia, down, hoping she'll back down as she usually does. Alicia holds her gaze strong.

"If it's not reliable, don't use it," she says calmly. She walks away in that refined way she's learned over the years. Kalinda's not naïve enough to hope she's talking about the murder case.

The next morning, sleep-deprived and more aware than ever of the consequences of becoming Kalinda Sharma, she walks into the courtroom, holding the manila file that will win Lockhart Gardner the case. At the moment, Alicia is speaking to the jury. When she ignores Kalinda's outstretched hand, instead continuing with her statement while shooting her daggers (another obvious sign of drinking to anyone who knows her), Kalinda gives the file to Will, whispers, "Make sure she uses it," then walks out on the courtroom, the case, and the best friend she thought she might actually be able to keep.

Kalinda is finished. Leela, that scheming, conniving, murderous bitch Leela, has come back and ruined everything. Kalinda Sharma has just one friend left, one person she knows will always make time to help her. She likes to think that he won't turn away from her, even in the face of all that she's done. Or rather, the things he knows about.

As she steps outside, she whistles and lifts up her hand. A cab squeals to a stop in front of her. She gives the address, making it seem like the place is her own. At this point, that might be the truth. She gets a feeling in her gut she hasn't felt more than twice over the last two years: apprehension. She hopes he won't turn away; she knows that when it's not good for him, he will have no other choice but to do so.

After all, she's an investigator. She knows better than anyone that the evidence is stacking up against her, and Cary doesn't deserve what'll come to him if she's staying there. Like she told Alicia what feels like forever ago, he's a good guy, and who is she to damage it?

Her mind is made up. She'll stop at his apartment, say goodbye, and get the hell out of Chicago, where everyone can pick up the pieces of the last few years without constant reminders of the woman who screwed up their lives a second time.

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><p>Cary likes to think he's a charismatic person. He's always seen himself as someone who never needs to be alone, because he's the type of guy who can find a companion at any hour of the day for any type of activity. From downing shots at a bar with his unemployed acquaintances to rubbing elbows with politicians, from picking a girl at a club to having a beer with Wiley during football season, he's a guy who will never be left to face the gremlins that come and night and screech at him, "What an ass!"<p>

He's a great guy, he really is, and he says that without the usual cocky wink and smirk. He doesn't understand that if he's such a great person to be around, why is there only one person he counts as a friend?

Will is a nice enough guy, but he's not willing to play the game everyone else is knee-deep in, and when he does so, he gets personally involved and insulted. His coworkers at the State's Attorney's office are just as ambitious as he is and twice as stubborn. Diane could have been like a mother to him, considering his mother didn't exist as far as Agos Sr. was concerned, but then she chose Alicia over him because of her last name and her own damn ambition. And Alicia herself? She's a nice woman. Almost too nice. He has sympathy for her, but at the same time, Alicia isn't very realistic. He can only deal with her in small concentrations, because to be surrounded by that kind of naivety all day is exhausting.

That leaves him with three companions: a bottle of bourbon, his brother's old Police record, and a woman with a penchant for leather and secrecy.

He's on his second glass when he hears a single knock at the door. He stands up slowly and pats his hair down before unbolting the door. In his doorway is none other than his one friend, the one person who can bring a smile to his face and put his heart in his throat at the same time. She looks the same as always, if you just passed her by on the street, but to the trained eye, she's falling apart. Her eyes are cloudy and dazed, her bangs fall into her face, and she's biting her bottom lip. From any other woman, this would be a strong "come hither" signal. But this is not any ordinary woman; this is Kalinda, a woman whose life has just come apart at the seams for a second time.

He reaches out and brushes a lock of ebony hair behind her ear where it belongs. His hand lingers by her cheek for a second. When he lets it fall, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in gently. To his surprise, she doesn't pull away, and then she wraps her arms around his neck and lightly rests her head over his shoulder. She doesn't cry (Kalinda Sharma would never cry in front of a mere mortal), but she can't stop her body from shaking with remorse.

"I don't have anything left," she says, so quietly he almost doesn't hear her. "It's all gone. Her friendship, my job soon enough, any working relationships I built up over the last two years…"

He shushes her, rubbing her back gently. He won't say everything's okay, since she'd know for sure he was lying, but at least he can be there for her. He figures it's been a long time since anyone has even attempted to comfort her.

"No comeback, Cary?" she sneers almost convincingly, unable to understand he's not just doing this for himself. "No snide comment about how I got what was coming to me?"

He pulls away a little, genuinely insulted. "You really think I would do that?"

"What's stopping you?"

He opens his mouth as if he's about to speak; he shuts it once he realizes he doesn't have a snappy answer. "Why did you come here?" he asks her. "You could have gone to your old girlfriend at the FBI, you could have left Chicago. You came here. Why?"

She pauses, trying to figure out the right answer.

"I trust you, Cary. I can count the people I've trusted in my life on one hand and still have fingers left over."

With that, he guides her into his apartment, his hand resting gently against her back.

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><p>By the time she's finished half of her second drink, they're at the end of the record, and she's no longer at the end of her fuse. They've managed to sit on the couch and have a nice enough conversation about nothing for a while. It's great, because if it was anyone else, they would have already bugged her with a thousand questions. She can count on Cary to make sure she's at least comfortable and relatively drunk before he pounds her with questions like she's the defendant in a murder case.<p>

"So do you have any idea what you're gonna do now that she knows?"

So much for no questions.

She sinks back into the couch, slouching a little. "I don't know. Change my name and get out of here, just get out of here, pray that I don't get fired…"

"Those aren't very good options," he says gently. "And you know it."

She's not sure whether she wants to laugh or cry. "You have something better in mind?"

He ducks his head and smiles, his eyes softening around the edges, like they always do whenever they are alone and he wants to do something particularly wonderful. She can't do what he's about to ask, though. What kind of person would she be to do that to him?

"Cary, I can't…"

"I don't see why not," he cuts her off. "Look," he says calmly, "you need some time to figure it out if you don't want things to go from bad to worse. You can't just leave Chicago with no plan, no endgame. It's stupid, and you're not a stupid woman."

Oh, he's good. So good, she almost believes him and his line. She tells him so.

"But I can't do it, Cary," she says. "I can't…"

"What? Can't let yourself rely on someone for just once in your life?" He refuses to continue with his line of thought and grits his teeth. They sit in silence for what feels like hours.

"You're sulking," she says gently.

"Am not," he sulks.

"Yes, you are. And you know I can't stay here with you. I've ruined enough people's lives, and out of the lives I could ruin, I really don't want to ruin yours."

"Do you trust me?"

She looks at him funny. "Didn't I just say…"

"Do you _trust_ me?" They lock eyes, and to her surprise, he almost looks as if he would be pained if she didn't accept. She puts the bourbon glass down and turns away from him.

"I guess this is goodbye, then?"

She turns back around, her eyes glassy once again. "My things'll fit into less than five boxes. Should be easy enough."

He lets out a sigh of relief and chuckles a little, kissing her forehead almost as gently as he once kissed her lips. When he realizes what he's done, he pulls away and clears his throat, sliding away from her, as if he could undo the unconscious display of affection by putting distance between them. It's funny for her to see him acting like the blushing schoolboy with a crush on the new girl; she wouldn't have ever expected Cary to be embarrassed about much of anything.

"So," he says gruffly. "Are we gonna go or what?"

* * *

><p>It's two thirty when he walks to the kitchen for a drink of water. All seems well, until he notices that she's far from asleep. She sits at the little square table, still dressed in today's clothes, nursing another glass of bourbon. He pads over and sits down so quietly he's not even sure she realizes he's there.<p>

"Go back to bed, Cary," she says as she stares at her glass. "I'm a big girl; I can take care of herself."

"Look, I said you could take my bed if you wanted it. You don't need to sleep on the couch."

"Cary, you need to go to sleep."

"And you don't?"

She shrugs. "You work twelve-hour days, you're gonna pay for it if you're up on my account."

"You're not gonna even try to go to sleep?"

She stiffens, then sighs and shakes her head. "If you want the truth, Cary, I've had nightmares for years. It's much easier to just stay awake than to wake up weak."

Damn her martyr complex. He can't figure out whether she's trying to atone for her sins or for everyone else's.

"Look, I don't know what you did before you became Kalinda, but I'm your friend, and it's my job to make sure you're okay, not to read you the riot act for whatever you might have done wrong. Get some pajamas on and go in my room."

"But…"

"No, Kalinda." He puts up a hand. "Not this time. Jesus, you sure you don't have a law degree?"

She almost smiles. The situation, crazy as it is, almost feels normal when he tries to lighten the mood.

"I'll get a blanket and camp out on the couch," he continues.

When he gets silence, he almost says something nasty to her for being so casual about something as important as sleep. What she says next, though, is something he won't forget.

"I don't need to take away sleep for you. We're both adults, I'm sure we can handle ourselves appropriately."

His jaw drops.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she stays, standing up. As she begins to clickety-clack past him, she suddenly stops. "Thank you," she says, almost as if she's talking to herself.

He wraps his hand around her arm gently. "Hey," he says. "No problem." _I'd bend over backwards to help you, regardless of what I might say. You might be the only person who actually gives a damn._ "It's what we do."

"You scratch my back, I scratch yours?"

He chuckles. Figures that Kalinda would know he means that on a much deeper level. "Exactly."

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><p><em>AN: Thoughts?_


End file.
